Fierce raged the fight; a wild, barbarian horde,
Thirsting for blood, surged like a stormy sea,
Around a little band, wielding the spear and sword,
Seeking to live and evermore be free,
Fast fell they there, as grass before the blade,
Until but one remained, who then in deep despair,
By night, in secret there, the tribal records laid,
Then died alone, last of his nation there.

The stately centuries in slow procession passed,
Safely, the record, in security on the hill reposed,
New cities rose, and the Lamanites at last,
Retreated in their turn before more mighty foes.
New sects, new creeds, in clash of bitter strife,
Proclaimed most brazenly, “Ours is the way to go”;
Each heaping curses on the other’s rule of life,
While multitudes looked on, anxious the truth to know.

“Which one is right?” this query frequent came
To Joseph’s mind, when to the inquiring quest,
Came answer, like the lightning’s dazzling flame.
Piercing the cloud and Joseph then found rest,
“If any man doth wisdom lack, let him ask of God,”
This promise old, he trusted, and in the grove,
Fervently he called, upon the emerald sod,
And then in answer, came the messengers of love.

“Join none of them,” came the commandment clear,
And at a later day, Moroni, glorious, came
With his grand revelation, to the obedient seer,
Who felt with heaven’s fire, his soul aflame,
At last the records were unto the world restored,
And now in distant lands and islands of the sea,
Still goes the message, a potent living word,
A sign and wonder to all men, forevermore to be.